


We Seek Comfort in Our Broken Bonds

by high_functioning_sociopath



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: (not by steve), Angst with a Happy Ending, Date Rape Drug/Roofies, Hurt Tony, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Making Up, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Rape, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Violence, Whump, raped tony stark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:01:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23420605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/high_functioning_sociopath/pseuds/high_functioning_sociopath
Summary: Steve Rogers wants to say that Tony Stark isn’t the last person he expected to find at his door at half past four in the morning.Tony just wanted to forget.Loosely based offthis prompt.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 15
Kudos: 173





	We Seek Comfort in Our Broken Bonds

**Author's Note:**

> another whump fic? who'd've thunk it?? lmao gosh, i literally wrote this whole thing in one sitting, haha this is what happens when i think of the pain. on that topic, please mind the tags - i'm not here to trigger anyone, please stay safe <3
> 
> thanks to my lovely betas! you're the best!! <3

Steve Rogers wants to say that Tony Stark isn’t the last person he expected to find at his door at half past four in the morning. But he’d only be lying to himself, so he doesn’t bother, and crosses his arms to hide his wariness. He’s barely opened his mouth to ask how he found him, what he’s doing there, _why_ —

“’M sorry… Didn’t know where else to go…”

The soft mumble, barely audible, makes Steve pause, and he actually looks at Tony now, more than just to gather who’s in front of him, and his arms fall limp at his sides.

He looks _wrecked_ , blood staining his face and his (stretched out, filthy) button down, shivers chasing through his form, from cold or from fear, Steve isn’t sure (but he thinks both). He’s swaying on his feet, his gaze unfocused and cloudy and—

Drugged.

Not the fun kind he might have taken willingly, either. That would have left him much happier than this.

“Tony, wh—”

Steve barely manages to catch him when he passes out.

#

Tony just wanted to forget.

He’s been trying that a lot since the ~~divorce~~ blowout in Vienna.

It never ended up like this. He was careful enough, but he didn’t have to be. He had FRIDAY, he was Tony Stark, he was _Iron Man_ , for fuck’s sake. He was fine.

He isn’t fine.

Asshole must have put it in his drink. Tony wouldn’t have noticed, already three, four, eight shots in, he doesn’t keep track of useless shit like that.

He tries to call FRIDAY as soon as it starts to hit him, as soon as he realizes something is off, but his watch has been on the same time for 20 minutes (probably — it’s a guess, considering) and his phone is glitching and he can barely protest when he’s pulled out of the bar.

The laughter-filled “ _Don’t worry, this isn’t new, I’ll bring him home_ ” barely registers through the cotton in his skull, but it’s enough. He doesn’t know that voice and he sure as hell doesn’t trust it.

There’s a cracking sound when he tries to wriggle away and is slammed face-first into brick. Broken nose, if nothing else. Lovely. He doesn’t have enough energy for a scream, so he settles for a low groan. It earns him a laugh, and the cold air gives him goosebumps as the lower half of his clothing is tugged out of the way, exposing his ass.

“Be good for me, Stark,” he—whoever _he_ is—says, a purring in his ear too reminiscent of actual lovers for the dark, violent shitshow he’s started.

The sluggishness of his body and the fuzziness in his brain apparently isn’t enough to leave him not feeling anything, because he _does_ , and it _hurts_.

He tries to push back again, gather enough strength to shove against the wall and knock him off, but it only works to piss his attacker off. He can feel his collar being grabbed, yanked back farther than Tony’s head can go, choking against his neck, ruining Armani. He can barely register the words growled at him, isn’t sure if it’s a threat or an order. Maybe both. It hardly matters.

The next few minutes or hours or days are filled with nothing but sharp, painful thrusts and hot breath panting in his ear, grunting out compliments and insults to Tony’s prowess in equal measure.

When it’s over, he doesn’t move. The man leaves, FRIDAY’s voice rings in his ear once more, and Tony stays, leaning heavily against the uncomfortable brick of the wall, his sharp, loud breaths barely registering as he feels the wetness slip toward his thighs.

“Take me to him,” he whispers, seconds or hours after a suit lands near him, prepared to take him home, to the hospital, wherever.

“To who, boss?” FRIDAY asks, lies.

“You know who,” he says.

She does.

#

The first thing Steve does after getting Tony settled on his mattress is reset his nose. The man whimpers, grimaces, but doesn’t wake, and Steve furrows his brows in concern. He doesn’t have anything to protect or splint his nose, doesn’t need it with his healing, so it’ll have to do on its own.

He wants to draw a warm bath, clean him off, but that doesn’t seem like an okay thing to do. Not to an estranged friend. There’s a reason Tony never called. (But then why is he here?) He wets a washcloth instead, gently swiping the blood off his face.

He doesn’t undress him. That doesn’t seem okay either.

Steve grabs a nearby chair and sits, watching over him, protecting him. He doesn’t know from what. He doesn’t care.

#

The bed beneath Tony is unfamiliar, old and uncomfortable, and he would panic if the splitting headache didn’t hit him first. He groans for FRIDAY and someone carefully helps him into a sitting position, moving him so his back is against the wall, before wrapping Tony’s fingers around a cold glass. He drinks the water gratefully, the cool liquid soothing his parched throat. He takes a deep breath and hands it back with muttered thanks.

“How do you feel?” Steve asks.

Steve.

_Steve!?_

Tony whips his head to the side so fast the room spins, and Steve— _steve is here why is steve here where is he_ —reaches out quickly to steady him. “I’ll take that as a ‘not great.’”

“Where…” Tony asks. It’s technically a complete sentence. Shut up.

“My apartment. Iceland,” Steve answers.

“Right… Why?” It’s a decent follow up question, he thinks, but the crease that appears between Steve’s eyebrows makes him worry.

“I was hoping you’d tell me.”

It doesn’t take a lot of work to bring up the memories. Barely a tap into his brain before it floods back in, fuzzy, but unmistakable.

He clears his throat and hides his shaking hands between his thighs. Steve sighs.

“Tony,” he starts.

“You have a beard now,” Tony interrupts. It’s important info.

Steve brings his hand up to his face as if to confirm, _why yes, I do have a thick layer of hair on my face, how intriguing_ , and huffs a laugh. “Easier to hide,” he admits. “No one expects this look on me.”

“The longer hair helps, I’m sure.”

“Definitely.”

“I like it.”

A smile twitches at Steve’s lips and Tony fights his own. “Thank you.” Tony gives him a weak two-finger salute. “We should talk.”

“About Vienna or about last night?”

There’s a long pause before he answers, sounding almost hopeful, “Both?”

Tony swallows and licks his lips. He nods. “Okay. But…later? Everything hurts and we almost had something and I don’t have the energy to talk about how big you fucked up yet.”

Steve lets out a soft sigh. “We both made mistakes, Tony,” he says, weary and tired. Tony purses his lips. “Later sounds good, though. Want some eggs?”

Tony nods, and Steve mimics the movement. “Okay.” He stands up, only taking a few steps before turning back to him. “I missed you,” he admits softly. Tony smiles warmly.

“I missed you, too.”

#

The talk is good. Helpful. They can hardly work through everything that quickly, but they’re on the right track, and they feel lighter. Happier.

If eventually they ditch the conversation to press together, seizing lips and caressing skin, well. That’s their business. And they certainly aren’t complaining.


End file.
